


only good at being bad

by noctiphany



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: BDSM, Bratting, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctiphany/pseuds/noctiphany
Summary: “Fuck you, Wilson. This has nothing to do with you.”“I think it does,” Slade says. “Who else can give this to you? Who else can handle you? And here’s the biggest one. Who even wants to?”
Relationships: Damian Wayne/Slade Wilson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 188





	only good at being bad

**Author's Note:**

> Quick A/N: It's not *really* dubious consent, Damian is literally just being a brat. It's all consensual, despite his protests. I left the specific age ambiguous, so choose your own adventure. If you're curious though, I don't generally write anything under 15.

“I see you, kid,” Slade says, tip of his sword tipping Damian’s face up, the tip of Damian’s trying to edge between his ribs. “I know exactly what your deal is.” 

“You know nothing about me, Wilson,” Damian spits out, all venom and vitriol as per usual. “I’m not one of your -”  
  
“Hush now,” Slade says. “Daddy’s talking.” 

A subtle grin slowly forms on Slade’s face as color fills the boy’s cheeks. Then Damian’s shoving the sword harder, his leg coming up, boot hitting Slade in the solar plexus, knocking him back a few feet. They go at it again for a bit and it’s fun, the kid’s a good fighter. For the first ten years of his life he was trained by the League of Assassins, not something for the faint of heart, especially a kid. After that he was inducted into the Bat’s cult of neverending Robins. Slade’s interacted with Grayson enough over the years to know that some of their training makes the League’s look like summer camp. 

“You’re disgusting,” Damian snaps at him, blood smeared in the corner of his mouth, which Slade has to admit, is a very good look for him. He’s still in fighting stance, hands gripped around the hilt of his sword, ready to strike again at any moment. Slade doesn’t doubt that the kid will fight until one or both of them go down. Like father, like son, he supposes. “You’re a degenerate, Wilson. You prey on teenagers, why? Does it make you feel powerful? Does it make you feel young again? I feel bad for you, actually. You’re _ pathetic_.” 

Slade chuckles. “I’m a degenerate, huh?” He puts his sword away, leans against the wall. “And what does that make you?”  
  
“_What _ are you talking about?” Damian spits out, gripping the hilt of his sword tight enough his knuckles are turning white. 

“You know,” Slade says. “Being a little shit to any and everyone, even your family, your friends. Stirring the pot constantly, pissing literally everybody who comes in contact with you off, pushing them until they snap and beat you down --”

“That is _ not _-”

“I said _ hush, _” Slade growls out, taking a step forward, and he can see the kid’s shoulders visibly drop a little. It’s not much, but its something. It’s enough to cement Slade’s theory. “You love to push people to their limit, but you’ve never gotten what you really want.”

Damian rolls his eyes at him. It’s more petulant than violently aggressive and it tells Slade he’s already put a crack in the armor. “And what is it you _ think _I want?” 

Slade takes that brief, vulnerable window to knock the katana out of Damian’s hand and pick him up by his throat, slam him against the wall. 

“Discipline,” Slade says, staring into the white eyes of the kid’s domino mask. “To be punished” 

Damian’s throat flexes against his palm and he tries to kick out, gets both his boots planted on Slade’s chest and Slade just lets go of his throat, laughs at Damian as he falls on his ass. Damian grabs for the katana quick though and flips off the ground using nothing but the muscle in his core, lunges for Slade and would’ve ran him through if it wasn’t for the kinetic shield of the Ikon suit.

“You know what, I’ve had about enough of this shit,” Slade says, bending at the waist and tackling the kid to the ground, taking the katana and throwing it across the roof. Damian knees him in the gut, uses his tiny frame to try to twist out of Slade’s grip, but Slade catches him, grabs his arms and twists them behind his back, holding both of his wrists in the center. Slade knows the position doesn’t feel great, that at least one of the kid’s shoulder blades is out of socket, but of course he’s not saying anything. He won’t. That’s something the league taught him, silence in pain. The Bat taught him that any pain is his own doing. 

Slade’s going to teach him something different. 

He cuts the kid’s utility belt off with his knife, tears the cape off so he can get to his pants, then yanks them down to his knees. Then he wastes no time smacking the kid’s ass, hard.

“You disgusting degenerate,” Damian hisses. “Is this what gets you off, Wilson? Spanking kids?”

“You’re not a kid,” Slade says, striking him again, so hard the Damian jolts forward a few inches. Then does it again. “You might be a runt, but nah. You haven’t been a kid in a long time.” 

Slade remembers seeing him in Nanda Parbat years ago, little cloaked figure walking alongside his mother and grandfather. He remembers seeing him out in the training yard, swinging a sword around like he was born with one in his hand. If Slade knows the League, the kid had spilled blood before he even knew how to ride a bike. He’s not a kid; the life he’s had, he never really was. 

A noise escapes Damian’s mouth the next time Slade hits him. It’s not a moan exactly, not even a whine, but its something. Something Slade wants to hear. He wants to hear Damian wail, wants to hear him beg. That’s what he wants, after all, someone to pin him down and _force _him to submit. That’s what this is all about. The kid never learned that it was okay to quit sometimes. He doesn’t know how. He needs someone to make him. 

Slade strikes him again, and again. The kid’s ass has started to turn a nice shade of pink, but Slade wants it red all over, wants there to be bruises tomorrow. He wants it to be hard for the kid to sit for a _week, _a reminder of it every time he winces. 

“Let me go you sick, twisted -”  
  
Slade hits Damian so hard this time the words die in his throat. He doesn’t make any other noise though and Slade would bet money that his bottom lip’s bloody from how hard he’s biting it right now.

“The more you fight me, the longer this is going to go on,” Slade says, not slowing his pace, hitting Damian’s ass again and again and again, the same strength behind each strike, only alternating where his hand lands each time. “But I’m pretty sure that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Damian spits profanities at him, some of them not even in English. Slade picks out some Arabic and French, a language he can’t quite place. 

“I’m not the only depraved one here, sweetheart,” he says. “You love this. This is exactly what you’ve been looking for, someone who’s sick of your shit who can actually best you. You’re such an angry little cunt all the time because you need this, you -”

“Shut your fucking mouth_ , _ ” Damian snaps. “I _ don’t _ need this, I don’t want you even touching me. I fucking _ hate _ you, I -”  
  
Slade laughs, then reaches around and grabs Damian’s dick, hot and hard and oh so wet, just practically dripping precome. “You wanna repeat that, little bat?” 

“Fuck you,” Damian snarls. He struggles even harder to twist out of Slade’s grip, but all he accomplishes is popping the other shoulder blade out of place. “Don’t fucking touch me you -- God, you’re so _ vile _, you -”

Slade spreads one of Damian’s cheeks and slips his thumb between them, pushing it against his rim and Damian moans like a whore, even presses his hips back against, his body seeking more. 

“Oh yeah,” Slade says. “I’m the nasty one here, huh? Look at you, a dirty little bird moaning like a whore, dick hard from getting spanked by a man old enough to be your daddy.”

Another moan slips from Damian’s lips, followed by another slew of unintelligible curses, but his hips still push back, his body knowing what he wants even if he wants to deny it. “Fuck you, Wilson. This has nothing to do with you.” 

“I think it does,” Slade says. “Who else can give this to you? Who else can handle you? And here’s the biggest one. Who even _ wants _ to?” 

Slade pulls his hand back and strikes Damian again, hits him so hard his body surges forward, pulls back again -

and then he hears it.

_ “Please”. _

Slade lower his hands. He doesn't hit him again, instead rubs at the redness on Damian’s ass, which he knows doesn’t feel much better than being hit. 

“You finally get enough?” He asks, digging his fingers into one of Damian’s cheeks and squeezing. Then he lets go and leans down to growl in Damian’s ear. “Are you going to _ behave_?”

A beat, long enough that Slade is about to sit back, give him a few more hand print shaped bruises on his ass since apparently that wasn't enough.

“...Yes,” Damian says quietly, his whole body shaking, and Slade knows what he needs. Knows that he'd never ask for it.

“Good boy,” Slade murmurs next to Damian’s ear, reaching around to get his hand around him, and the kid comes undone. 


End file.
